


as your lover, i have my doubts

by troubles



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Lent, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 07:50:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15702960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubles/pseuds/troubles
Summary: some temptation shouldn't be resisted.





	as your lover, i have my doubts

**Author's Note:**

> this is a bad use of catholic education, and i'm deeply sorry.

Even if Gansey won’t say it, Ronan knows his subscription to Lent is a source of confusion. Gansey asked about it once, that first year of their friendship, and at fifteen, Ronan couldn’t, or wouldn’t be bothered to, provide a rational explanation. Ronan has a vague memory of being young, of a pouting Declan beside him, guiltily handing over a half-finished candy bar, Declan’s jealous eyes turning on Matthew in his highchair with his tousled blonde hair, jovially banging fists on its plastic ledge and streaks of the chocolate sauce marring plump cheeks, too young to comprehend his brothers’ distress. Ronan put a hand on his Declan’s arm, defiantly stared down their father and pleaded the purpose of the Lenten season.

“We do it because we do it, son,” and that reason had always been good enough for Ronan Lynch.

Getting older, after Niall’s death, Ronan realizes Lent is about more that just tradition, but it’s a motivation that’s worked for him. The first year he meets Gansey, he gives up alcohol. He does it almost effortlessly, and he owes his easy triumph partially to Gansey himself. With the recession of night horrors and the fact that Gansey isn’t more than a social drinker, there’s nothing to tempt him beyond the memory of bitter taste.

The problem is that he does it so easily that he decides giving up booze isn’t a commendable challenge. The following year he gives up going out to the weekly rave twenty-five minutes out from Monmouth. It’s his secret vice; it’s the sin he prides himself on keeping hidden. But if God sees all then He sees the smooth, slick slide of bodies in the dark and the mouths that viciously collide with no other intention than consume, consume, consume. Forty nights without it quickly translates to forty nights without getting laid and the sleepless dark where minutes tick to the tempo of the slow hand of the clock. Ronan feels like he’s dying, but he does it. And when the forty days have all passed he feels confident in the knowledge that there’s no sin strong enough to govern Ronan Lynch, that his control wins every fucking time.

But it’s not just custom. He’s sat through enough Sunday masses to be able to recite the priest’s words tenfold. He’s heard numerous times that Lent is a season of conversion, not of faith but of acknowledgment and recognizing the ways in which the human body turns away from God through vice. And this is faith’s natural mode of correction; these are the tracks laid down to ensure the train doesn’t entirely derail. It is not so much the deprivation of a small pleasure, but the offering of a sacrifice unto God. This is the small-scale emulation of Jesus’ own journey through the desert, permitted neither food nor water. Ronan knows the devil is real; he wants to think God is too.

\---

Ronan, Noah, and Blue are lazing around Monmouth, there’s no better way to describe what they’re doing. There’s no Gansey to dictate the pace of the afternoon and no Adam to chastise them for wearing their shoes indoors, so Ronan and Blue are sitting on the bed, backs against the wall and feet hanging off the frame, heels crossed over each other on the coffee table. Noah’s commandeered an armchair, smudgy form sprawled over its cushioned seat, idly eyeing a stray, hollow rubber squash ball. Ronan can tell by the inquisitorial expression on Noah’s face that he’s contemplating whether or not he can throw it from his position on the chair and have it rebound back towards him, but Ronan’s played squash enough times to know you need a racquet, a sense of accuracy, and decent force. Ronan’s not sure Noah owns any of that.

Blue slurps from her juicebox loudly. Ronan didn’t even know they’d bought anything other than a jug of orange juice from which Ronan drinks from the bottle, but leave it to Gansey’s courtesy to do the grocery shopping for not only himself and Ronan, but their friends as well.

“I don’t get this,” Blue says. “You’re willingly giving up something for forty days because a man did it thousands of years ago?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Ronan replies, though the comment isn’t as sharp as it would have been only months earlier.

“No, you don’t, but I want to.”

“It’s Lent, Blue.” He tries not to let exasperation seep into his tone. “Everyone gives up what they hate to love and I don’t fucking know, it brings them closer to God, or some shit, okay?”

“And this is important to you?”

“Obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here fielding Noah’s useless suggestions.”

“Hey!” Noah calls out in protest that’s mostly noncommittal.

“Alright. Give up smoking.” Blue suggests.

“Great idea, maggot. If I only smoked.”

“Booze?” She questions.

“Mission accomplished – two years ago.”

“Speeding,” Noah says triumphantly and Ronan levels him with a look.

Blue jumps in. “No, too many liabilities with that. Like what if we’re being chased? Or we need a quick escape? Or if we’re in desperate need of getting to Cabeswater?

Ronan’s not sure if Blue’s been watching too many action movies or if that’s really what their life has become. He’s also surprised at how seriously she’s considering his religious commitment, something he never expected taking into account their somewhat rocky relationship. Subconsciously Ronan realizes that it’s a sign of how much they’ve come to respect and even care about each other. Despite Ronan’s resistance to Blue’s induction into their boys’ club, they rarely ever clash these days, and more often than not stand alongside each other in their convictions.

“Swearing!” Blue exclaims with eyes wide and one hand half-raised like she’s had an epiphany.

Ronan feels the blood drain from his face and instantly discards all previous affection toward her. He straightens his back and adjusts to sit on the edge of the bed.

Noah claps his hands. “Literally perfect.”

“Yeah… I don’t know,” Ronan mumbles something to that effect, but whatever he says is drowned out by Blue and Noah chattering over each other excitedly.

“Can you imagine,” Blue starts. “No, No, Noah. Picture it” - a gesticulating hand this time – “Ronan… the censored version. Unlock your doors, ladies and gentlemen!” she crows.

“No. That’s too much. I don’t think I’d survive that – too hard.” Ronan’s embarrassed at how much his tone resembles a whine, but he also knows what’s said is already said.

Instead of gentle ribbing, what he gets is Blue moving towards him, body small and nearly weightless behind him.

“That’s the whole point, Ronan,” she says consolingly.

And that’s how Gansey finds them seconds later: Ronan hunched over and Blue with her hand on his shoulder. Gansey spares the three of them a questioning glance.

“Ronan’s giving up swearing for lent.”

Noah’s tone is grave. 

\---

Subtracting swearing from his schedule turns out to be the hardest thing Ronan’s ever done.

There’s slight exaggeration in the thought, he knows, but he also finds that when you omit the curse words from his vocabulary, he doesn’t have all that much to say. The absence of profanity takes the creativity out of chirping and Ronan finds himself sullen, a little more irritable than usual, and ultimately counting down the days.

Ronan’s no deity, but if the Son of Man can do forty days without water, he’s sure as hell going to survive this.

Day 15 passes and Ronan resets his resolve. He’s almost halfway through, but goddamn, what he wouldn’t give for the taste of a simple string of swears, anything to vent out coiling frustration.

\---

It’s twenty-two days into Lent, and it’s 2 a.m. and Ronan’s phone is ringing furiously on his bedside.

He rolls over to face it begrudgingly. Ronan still hates the damned thing, but the calling card reads ‘Parrish,’ and he can’t deny that he’s worried to get a call so goddamned late. Adam should have finished work two and a half hours ago and yeah, Ronan would admit they’re close now, would concede to some unnamable thing boiling between them, but doesn’t think Adam would drop him a line in the middle of the night to go crash some trolleys in the vacant, dimly-lit parking lots. Hell, he wouldn't answer it if Adam wasn't calling him in the dark of the night. He can’t help the mild worry spreading like spider webs under his skin.

He answers on what would have been the penultimate ring. He picks up and Adam’s slightly panicked on the other end, Ronan can tell by the measure of his breath. Ronan’s own breath hitches, and he longs for the cold comfort of cursing, hopes Adam isn’t in any imminent danger, mentally calculates the time between Monmouth and St. Agnes.

“Ronan,” Adam’s voice is low, like he’s trying not to be heard. “What are you doing right now?”

“Parrish, it’s 2am. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

There’s a silence with no tangibility, just dead air and miles between them.

“It’s nothing,” but whatever the nothing is, it’s keeping Adam up at night, Ronan can tell. Adam breathes out. “I’m going to graduate from Aglionby and I’ve never been kissed.” His voice is shaky, like it’s torn between a laugh and anxiety.

Ronan can’t deny he’s a little shell-shocked, glad the momentary lapse in conversation can be attributed to the late hour and not the thought that someone’s swept the rug out from under his feet.

“And?” Ronan can’t help the bite from seeping into his reply; it’s past midnight and he’s not in the mood to hear about Adam’s failed attempt to romance Blue. “What do you want me to do about that?”

“Come over.” Adam says, confidently this time, and hits the dial tone.

It’s the shortest conversation they’ve had in a long time, but Ronan’s feet carry him out of his room and Monmouth Manufacturing at a speed of which he didn’t even know humans were capable.

He doesn’t spare a thought for the miles per hour he’s running. It’s reckless but the roads are empty. There’s not a cop in sight and every stop sign is an obstacle on his way to Adam’s apartment; they’re all optional in the dead of the night.

He gets to Adam’s door somewhat noisily and Adam throws it open within seconds. Ronan doesn’t know who moves first but they’re kissing frantically before they get inside, mouths meeting in a hurry, Adam’s hot tongue stealing the residual cold from Ronan’s mouth. It’s messy, and Ronan knows he’s setting a desperate pace, can’t help the feeling that it’s the culmination of waiting, of a brewing tension, of a long time coming. With his hands clasped over Adam’s bony cotton-clad hips Ronan pushes him through the threshold of the flat and kicks the door shut with his Docs.

When they break apart for air, Adam looks as dazed as Ronan feels. It’s three o’clock in the morning.

“Feel better?” Ronan asks, lips unable to fight the smirk that curves them upward.

“Shut up, Lynch.” And Adam pulls him right back in.

They spend another few hours kissing until they can’t. Until it’s just their mouths tiredly lapping at one another, breaths between shared lungs. Ronan’s mouth feels swollen, and Adam’s lips are chapped with overuse. They fall asleep like that – Ronan on his back and Adam’s head pillowed between his neck and chest - on Adam’s bed with all their clothes on, even though it’s April and Ronan wants nothing more than to pull Adam’s faded green shirt off his shoulders.

\---

For all his talk of Lent as a form of fasting, Ronan no longer feels like he’s starving.  
There aren’t hands below the belt that first night, but he’d swear it’s like a drug, better than words and any substance he’d refused from Kavinsky.

Ronan’s no stranger to hooking up - he doesn’t spend every sleepless night in Monmouth, after all. Logically, he knows Adam lacks the skill and experience that at least half of his previous partners acquired prior to meeting him, but Adam has something else – Ronan’s attention – and he has it in spades.

The scenes play through his head like a movie reel - the taste of Adam’s lips all night, the lingering smell of gasoline that clings to his skin, the press of his chest into Ronan’s, the grip of hands on toned biceps. Ronan finds himself fixated on Adam’s fingers that hold the pen, the way the strap of his worn-out messenger bag falls neatly off his shoulder and across his back. Ronan wants to drape himself over Adam’s body that effortlessly, needs to physically contain himself with a pinch, restrain himself from begging Adam to let him pull him into an stony alcove in the Aglionby courtyard, just for two minutes, just to get a hand on the back of the neck and kiss him stupid.

But Adam works as many hours as his employers will give him and takes his studies seriously, and Ronan knows he has priorities that don’t involve macking on every available surface, so he takes whatever sporadic kisses he can get, and by God, does he love it. It’s nearly twelve days after the first when he gets Adam’s jeans below his hips in the Beamer, slides a hand into his boxers. Ronan half-wishes they had more room for this, but all they have is the passenger seat as horizontal as the automated levers would allow, with Ronan straddling Adam’s thighs, and both their knees hyperconscious of not knocking the gear shift. Ronan’s shirt lays discarded somewhere in the backseat and Adam’s is rucked haphazardly up his chest, gathering diagonally under his armpits and revealing a single nipple. No one talks because there’s no need to: it’s just panting breaths and body heat that get the car stifling hot. Ronan wonders at the sight they’d make if they weren’t in the middle of who-knows-where, could crawl out of his own skin with the thought of it. He curls a hand around Adam’s dick, hard, flushed pink, and leaking slightly from the tip. With a loose fist gives it a slow stroke upward, drawing a groan from Adam, before removing his hand and bringing it to his mouth, laving it with saliva.

“I don’t have anything else in here,” Ronan says, but suspects his words go lost on Adam, who has his eyes clenched tight and his head thrown back.

In the constricted space of the BMW’s passenger seat, Ronan works Adam’s dick with his dominant hand, letting the thick head slide through his fist and drinking in Adam’s small gasps every time Ronan lets his thumb brush the sensitive cockhead. Ronan’s acutely aware of it being Adam’s first time, of wanting to make it good for him, and he does, bending forward to place an open-mouthed kiss on Adam’s parted lips, swallowing his moan and biting his bottom lip. Adam comes like that, with Ronan’s mouth on his and Ronan’s hand on his dick, orgasm spurting onto Ronan’s fingers and his own stomach. Ronan gets himself off after Adam’s taken care of, with Adam whispering obscenities about him being so good, about his hands, his mouth, his everything, hand pumping his own cock before Adam clasps a calloused palm over Ronan’s. 

The sight of their joint hands over Ronan’s dick and the evidence of what they’ve done over taut abs sends Ronan off the ledge and he comes with a broken groan.  
“Fu-” Adam cuts off the curse with a palm over Ronan’s mouth. 

“You’re still good, Lynch.”

But Ronan’s been beyond the point of caring since the first time they kissed, just over halfway into Lent. Recklessly, he thinks, some temptation shouldn’t be resisted. The way Adam looks at him afterward, mouth bruised pink from kisses and glassy-eyed from his orgasm… Ronan knows he’s right then, thinks the sight is a goddamn masterpiece. Adam and his filthy sounds: his dirty little secret.


End file.
